Maddy performing "Being Mrs. Banks"

As a blogger, I don't often shamelessly self promote. I think it's more important to stay neutral, but on this video, I cannot.

This is my daughter and her talent makes me shudder. She was Winifred Banks in her HS production of Mary Poppins.

It's my blog so I can share it. 

I hope you enjoy. 

 

The day I turned 49

I had been given notice.

Your life will never be the same.

That's what my new boss said. Those words. Your life will never be the same.

I tried to nonchalantly nod and act like it was cool, but the fact was, he was right. I'm not sure he knew all the reasons, but that's not important. He knew, traveling would change my life.

I've always had a restless soul. I fancied myself a bon vivant, melding into places around the world and absorbing the culture like a sponge. Yet, while 48 years of life had taken me many places, all of them were familiar. I'd moved around a number of times, attended three high schools, and seen a lot of places. I never had to experience a different language or currency. Small changes, but I wasn't familiar.

I've spent a lifetime processing my world with words. I've imagined the places I could go and the people I wanted to meet. I felt it.

The morning of my 49th birthday, I woke up along the Danube River in Austria. Our port was a little town of less than 900 residents. We had two hours there, but I had hoped to jump on a bicycle and ride 32 km to the next port. Alas, that trip was canceled, so instead I hopped on the ship, imagining my legs instead of the ship were carrying me to the next destination.

When I walked into the small town of Durnstein, I wandered the cobblestone streets and peeked in yards. I talked to people pushing wheelbarrows up their path to work in their yard and admired their handiwork. I pretended I was one of them. I got separated from my group and took a few moments to reflect. I walked along the shore and picked up a few polished river stones. I wrote the date in the sand along the bank.

I've never tried to obsess over numbers. But as my nest shrunk and my baby birds flew from the nest, I felt the sinking weight of age settling over my soul. I wondered what was next and couldn't imagine.

I wrote my soul on the screen, spilled my heart to the electronic world. I tried to make sense of a world one letter at a time. I used all 26 as often as possible. And somehow, it was noticed. I never stopped trying to find ways to work or use my talent for words. It was noticed. I was offered a job as content creator and social media manager for a travel group. Part of my compensation is travel.

I spent a week waking up in strange cities, with strange customs and unfamiliar languages. I paid attention and asked questions and made friends. I learned about my surroundings and did my best not to be an ugly tourist. I decided as I left the cruise to look up the way to say "Thank you for taking such good care of us" in the native language of all of the staff helped make our trip wonderful. My Romanian and Hungarian friends were delighted. I just told them they did so much to help me feel comfortable in my language, the least I could do was thank them in theirs.

The world isn't as big as it felt. I cannot wait to see more.

It's pretty cool. No, it's very cool. My boss was right. My life will never be the same.

Summer of the gypsies

The summer I would turn 14 my father made me change my tank top before I went to the county fair. I thought Dad was being overprotective and nerdy. He mumbled something about those carnies, on the carnival side of the fairgrounds. Cigarettes dangled freely from their lips, glowing hot embers complimenting the neon lights of their rides and games. Our farmer's side of the fair had old men with cheeks full of chewing tobacco, but no cigarettes around all the hay and sawdust bedding. An errant ash could set everything aflame. I see myself then, a skinny tomboy, with tiny rosebud breasts that didn't even need a bra. I talked with the kids about chickens that didn't lay. Some of the older brothers would laugh, elbowing each other knowingly. It made no sense to me.

Growing up on a farm, the pinnacle of our summer was the county fair. It was always the first week of August and we’d spend the prior two months preparing our livestock for show, our baking for judging, and our sewing for modeling. The Future Farmers of America brought in samples of their hay and crops, and the really cool guys were allowed to bring their tractor to the fair. It was wholesome and idyllic.

Ours' was a different universe, the farmer’s side of the fair, where we ate at church sponsored cafeterias or out of picnic baskets we brought ourselves. We rarely ate the carnival food. Someone would occasionally bring back a cup of fair fries, manna soaked in vinegar and ketchup. We’d circle like buzzards. The fortune tellers and games of chance tantalized us. The invisible fence wasn't electrified, but that didn't mean it was easy to cross. I rebelliously yearned to wear my tank top and walk down the midway, just to see what would happen. The carnies’ trucker chain wallets jangled with a hypnotic cacophony. Their greasy hands and sinewy muscles were a stark contrast to overalls and manure-caked boots. We camped on cots in the barn playing cards next to livestock pens while they huddled around their trailers comparing tattoos.

Every summer, my friends and I would take one day and explore the carnival side of the fairgrounds. We rode the creaky rides, ate the greasy food, and slipped inside the gypsy tent with a few dollars to hear our fortune. We wanted to hear that we would win a blue ribbon for our project. The gypsies were never that specific, but winning the blue ribbon meant the gypsies were right. The last night of the fair was the livestock auction where we would parade our blue ribbon animals before the crowd hoping for a high bid that would help grow our savings accounts. Our animals were carted away after the fair closed, destined to be a future dinner for the lucky bidder.

Livestock animals are raised for the sole purpose of one day gracing a dinner table. Fictionalized accounts of Charlotte the spider telling us that Wilbur was “Some Pig”, or that and Mary had a “little lamb”, were cute stories, but far removed from the reality of farming. We weren't encouraged to name the animals. Named or unnamed, they eventually disappeared in the still of the night, or more accurately, as the sun rose. We knew that it was best not to ask or be told where they went.

Very few farmers do their own butchering. We seized a bit of the frontier spirit on occasion, mainly with chickens. I witnessed firsthand how precise the expression “running around like a chicken with its head cut off” was. Those chickens for certain never lay again. When the spastic chicken’s muscles wearied, we would pluck the feathers, and then burn the remaining down off with a small blowtorch. The novelty wore thin, and we would crate the chickens and take them to the Amish farm down the road. They would kill and dress the poultry for 50 cents a bird, much more efficient and feather free.

One year, we hired some gypsies to butcher our pig. A huge family arrived, at least four adults and several children, probably ten people, total. The exotic dark haired children played hide and seek and flashlight tag with my brothers and me. It was patently clear that my parents didn't trust the gypsies. Our folks had told us ahead of time not to let anyone into the house, that if anyone needed to use the bathroom, to show them the outhouse. I was much more interested in watching everything than playing with the children, so I lingered near the barn. My father had a hunting rifle and shot the pig between the eyes. I only heard and felt the reverberation, but I didn't see it. The men tied and hung the pig in the air, from the front end loader tractor, and slit its throat so the blood would drain out. I watched with detached fascination.

The gypsy men carved the carcass with efficient expertise. They salvaged every part of the pig we didn't want, to dine on later. The gypsy women sang songs in an unfamiliar language while they caught the draining blood in buckets. They tucked the ears into plastic bags, and saved the intestines to stuff with their ethnic sausages. They claimed the hooves. They had ways to use what we discarded. Dusk came and the carcass was sliced into manageable pieces, wrapped in paper, and labeled. The mercury light cast a glow on our offering to the gods of the full larder. The gypsy men leaned on the side of their truck, casually smoking their cigarettes, while the women rounded the children into the back of the truck.

We carried baskets of wrapped meat to the freezer in the basement, stacking it neatly on a shelf. I don’t know why the gypsy butchers never returned. It makes me wonder how we found them in the first place. Were they mingling at the livestock auctions, offering their services? After that one time, we simply did what we did with all the other animals. We loaded them in the trailer and took them to the slaughter house. A few days later, we picked up our orderly packages of wrapped sustenance.

When I got older, I decided that I wanted to be a vegetarian. Maybe I had named one too many animals. Maybe I knew them too intimately to eat them. That was the same summer Sam died. For years, I had ignored the advice of my elders and I named my animals. Sam was one of my 4H lambs. He got an infection from an open wound. I tied him outside under a cherry tree and laid clean sheets on the grass for him to sleep on, so his infection wouldn't get worse from the less than sterile barn. I slept in a sleeping bag under the tree with Sam. In the morning, I woke up and Sam didn't. I remember being disappointed that I would only have two lambs to sell at the auction and closed the ledger book on Sam. I focused my attention on my remaining two lambs and that year I won the showmanship trophy.

Today, I buy frozen meat from the supermarket, in Styrofoam trays with sticky UPC labels, heeding the warning to cook to the right temperature to prevent disease and never ever thaw at room temperature. I wear tank tops when I wish and do not avoid the gaze of anyone. I hum to myself as I choose my meat. The song is an old one and a sense of déjà vu washes over me. The gypsies still intrigue me; I wonder what they dine on and their music echoes in my soul.

Life is sterile and tidy, but somewhere, away from my inquisitive eyes, the animals are still slaughtered and I wonder who catches their blood.

To learn more about the gypsy culture in the United States: The Gypsy Lore Society is an outstanding resource. 

Lisa or Lakeysha: What's in a name?

In the aftermath of the hate-filled shooting at the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, SC, my heart began to hurt terribly. I consider myself relatively un-bigoted and open-minded. I have several black friends who I love dearly, but admittedly, I cannot begin to wrap my head around their experience or their despair. I will never truly understand what it's like to be black in America. I've started some discussions on social media and I've tried to ask questions. I've tried to listen and understand.

I wanted to write today's blog because unlike a social media discussion, this will not go away. This will be a permanent opportunity to think and question the different ways all of us may grow.

I pondered the times I have exercised subtle racism, some of which I've written about. One thing I believe strongly is that if I am unwilling to do some self-examination and try to consider where even on a micro-level I've been guilty, I need to expunge it and ask for forgiveness. I need to vow to do better and I need to encourage the same of others. It's the only way the needle moves.

One of the more subtle ways I'm guilty of racism is when I read a person's name. We all know what a "black" name is when we see it. The embarrassing thing is, I have to admit to mentally mocking those strange spellings and wondering how in the world to pronounce that name. Turns out, I'm not the only one who does that. According to a study from the Poverty Action Lab,  "Resumes with white-sounding names received 50 percent more callbacks than those with black names." (full report: Are Emily and Greg More Employable Than Lakisha and Jamal? A Field Experiment on Labor Market Discrimination).

I've never done that for Giuseppi or Gianna, Raj or Raaka, Kieran or Siobhan, or Amtullah or Yahya. I've never wondered why their parents didn't give them an easier to spell or pronounce name. I've never been a big enough fool to actually ask someone why they didn't pick an easier name for their child. (Yes, I did that and my friend said, "How well do you think a Heather would survive in my world? She'd get mocked and teased daily for having such a white name.) I've never asked my friends why they'd choose Huxley or Hazel (names that are in the top growing elite baby names). This leads me to believe if I am so presumptuous to question what someone names their child, maybe I need to rethink myself.

This doesn't mean wipe away all my opinions. I still have a lot of opinions on names, and that's typical, it's why name lists exist and people spend nine months trying to think of a name for their baby. Why I should think any less of another parent's choice for their child's name? If that child is black and I have a hard time pronouncing that name, it is MY problem, not the parents.

Where the problem comes in and where racism is at play is when I glance at a class roster and make assumptions about what sort of day it will be based on the names I see. Maybe a little chuckle as I navigate the apostrophes in places that I don't understand and letter combinations that I never would think to make. Little Keshaun and K'iana should proudly wear the first gifts their parents gave them. Maybe if we start to accept their right to have a name that speaks to their life and experience, we can begin to grow as a society.

It starts with a drop of acceptance hitting the water like a pebble.

Here are the names of the victims:
Rest in Peace
Rev. Clementa Pinckney, 41
Cynthia Hurd, 54
Sharonda Coleman-Singleton, 45
Tywanza Sanders, 26
Myra Thompson, 59
Susie Jackson, 87
Ethel Lee Lance, 70
Daniel L. Simmons, 74
Depayne Middleton Doctor, 49

My essay Trouble Maker was about a young black boy. I didn't want to label him black in my story because I thought it would bring an unnecessary piece to the story. When I wrote it, I wanted it to be a color-blind story. I've realized if my young trouble maker was a white boy, he never would have faced the same scrutiny. He may have been considered "high-spirited" or a little "rascal" instead of a "thug". We can do better. 

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Dad Lecture Series

When I was a kid, I heard the same things over and over from Dad.

As an adult, I refer to them as 

"The Lecture Series"

There was an internet meme going around recently about things to tell your high school student. The words reverberated as things I've said repeatedly to my now college sophomore and my high school junior. We do our best to instill wisdom and hope it sticks.

I've told my children repeatedly, "This is a life lesson", "Be humble, not everyone has the same ability as you do", and "Have you had a token nod to nutrition today?" I wonder what their stories of my lectures would be?

My dad has his own series, but times change. I appreciate the wisdom dad gave me and try to live what I learned. A few key lectures I won't forget?  

• Speed for conditions (as in, I don't care what the road sign said, you should have slowed down while it was snowing or raining.)

• I used to feel sorry that I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet (be grateful for whatever you have because someone else always has it worse)

• 
  You can choose your friends in life, but you'll always be brothers and sister, and you'll be all you have -- get along. 

• And my favorite. Always split Aces and 8s

I drive carefully, I practice gratitude (especially for having feet), and I love my brothers. Oh and anytime I've played blackjack, I win money when I split aces or 8s. Financial advice rules.

Dad, your lifetime of advice has served me well.



Thank you.

Senior citizens rock

My family lives in retirement central USA. Their town in FL is known for their retirement communities and the lifestyle that surrounds it. The equivalent of a red corvette is a fast golf cart. Indeed, there are folks who "soup up" their golf carts. It amuses me.

In one of the local retirement communities is a restaurant and lounge, and my folks go there at least once a week. When we were visiting, they were particularly excited because it was karaoke weekend as well as a band. We booked a table.

The dinner was delicious. It really was. I had expected mushy flavorless food, but was overjoyed when I enjoyed my meal. The company and entertainment even more-so. Dad owns a local business and he's quite well known in the community. When we go places, all sorts of folks come to say hello. Our first visitor was a lady named Sadie. Sadie's face was a road-map of life and wrinkles. She was delightful. She told us about her family and her book club. After she left our table, Dad told me that her daughter is worried about the vodka she consumes and calls him to ask. Dad's stock reply, "I saw her have two".

Then there was Nadine. She is a retired bigwig from DC. She regaled stories of every president from Nixon on. She then told us that she is addicted to that show Alias. I may check it out.

The best visitor of the night was Rocco. Rocco, as his name indicates, is a feisty Italian guy. Rocco in all his mothball-scented studliness took a liking to our table. He was giving us play by play all night. At one point, Rocco took his lady friend out on the dance floor, but not without stopping by our table and stage whispering to my husband and myself, "This is my lady friend, she's Puerto Rican and she's hot." We smiled at Rocco and his lady. The whole evening felt like I was a stunt double in the movie Cocoon.

Then it was my turn. I used to sing karaoke on a fairly regular basis. I have no delusions of grandeur. I've got a decent voice, but not consistent and rather weak. I hit the notes, but cannot hold them. I'd never make it on Idol, but in a retirement village karaoke bar, I hold my own. I got up and sang. I chose an oldie-styled song, The Shoop Shoop song by Cher. I rocked the house. They all danced and thanked me after. Perhaps their appreciation had more to do with the ability to turn off their hearing aids.

After I sang, we had even more table visits. Then came the surprise. My dad had requested Daddy's Little Girl for us, and we got up and danced. At nearly 48 years old, twirling on the dance floor with my dad was a highlight. I love him so much.

It was a night I'll never forget.

Eccentric is as eccentric does

Very few stories can make me long for my childhood days on an organic vegetable farm. It's hard work and sometimes the only thanks you get is an algae filled pond with fish biting your toes while you drift on an inner tube. Rarely am I inclined to long for that life, but I remember the last time I did. I wore a necklace the other night and received several comments on it, to which I replied, "There's a story behind it." (To which my friends replied that they were not surprised.)

Our family has spent many summers on the Outer Banks of NC. We fell in love with the area during Hurricane Dennis in 1999. How funny is that? The first time we visited, a hurricane did as well! For years we returned to those beaches, enchanted by the wild horses, the fresh fish, and the relaxed pace of life.

There is an area of beach that is only accessible by four wheel drive vehicles. It's on the North Carolina/Virginia border. One summer, we went exploring. As we traveled further north, we would occasionally see signs for "Libba's Place" with the encouragement to come visit.

After seeing the hand-painted signs for mile upon mile, we decided to indeed go visit Libba's Place. Mr. Fresh was more skeptical than curious, but a bit of prodding helped us find Libba's Place.

We pulled up to a ramshackle beach house, with a chicken coop, a "beach museum" (as she called it) and other oddities. She also had a gift shop that appeared to not have been visited in years. She was an ageless sort of older, somewhere between 50 and 80, but impossible to say. Her weathered skin had not seen many days of sunscreen, as evidenced by her deep smile lines. Wearing an over-sized man's shirt, glasses on a chain around her neck and hair in a disheveled bun flying errantly about, framing her face like a white/grey halo, Libba came out to greet us.

"Welcome to my Place," she said in a smooth drawl with a voice that capitalized place, "I was just getting ready to feed my chickens, would you kids like to help?" She nodded to the minis.

The kids went with Libba to feed the chickens, and when they were finished she invited us to see her museum. Her museum was a lean-to filled with things she found on the beach. A naked Barbie doll missing a leg, an old buoy, a few shells, sea glass, driftwood, and a special collection of sea glass folks sent her from elsewhere, including my hometown, back at Lake Erie.

We wandered around Libba's Place, some of us enchanted, some of us befuddled. The enchanted person was the one who didn't have emotional baggage to this strange beach creature the way she did with her own upbringing. I suppose I could add a phony disclaimer how any resemblance to real or imagined characters is coincidence, but that's a crock and we know it. Libba is real. (The kids kept saying she reminded them of the woman in "Because of Winn-Dixie") If you're ever visiting the Outer Banks near the NC/VA border, you need to find out how real. Go visit Libba's Place and say hello.

She told us how she would sometimes row a boat across the sound to the mainland and that was quicker than driving. She showed us flower beds bordered with upside down wine bottles, quickly explaining that a lot of her visitors brought her empty wine bottles. I suspect she was a bit untruthful there, and perhaps they were full when they first arrived at her place. Nonetheless.

She invited us into her gift shop where an eclectic array of her projects awaited for our bidding. Nothing was priced. I'm fairly certain she priced her merchandise based on what she needed for that particular day. My minis got small bracelets for a dollar. I was intrigued by the piece shown in the photo, a big blue glass chunk on a charm. She insisted it was the gemstone aquamarine. It's irrelevant that I didn't believe her. She gave me enough of a story that morning that I didn't mind her thinking she conned me. I've never checked if the stone is real, I don't think it is at all, but who knows? She also told us that she gives people things and a card if they don't have money and just trusts they will mail her the money when they can.

Her card is still tucked in my wallet and I hope to visit her again another day. I will take a bottle of wine, but it won't be empty. I hope I can convince her to help me empty it.

Freezing time

The older I become and closer I approach that moment of my youngest child turning 18 (at the end of this year), the more I wish I could stop everything. I realize that I have defined myself as a "stay at home" mom since 1995. Twenty years. The last few years, I've not had to stay at home as much as I've needed to be accessible. The adjustment hasn't been seamless.

I'm at a crossroads. I don't know what is next as the nest is less full than in 2013, and approaching completely empty in 2016. I am raw.  I spent 12 years going to school, but finished, with a clearly defined "next", which was college. For me, it took 5 years, and then a small segue into the land of careers before realizing my career was closely tied to marriage and starting a family.

Nobody ever talks about what is next. I'm still a mom, but there is no need for my services on 24/7 basis. I don't abdicate my mom title, but I do reflect on all it's meant the past 20 years. My oldest is in her second year of college and my youngest in her 3rd year of high school. She is preparing for post high school the same way I am. But where are my standardized tests? Where can I be tested to see what I accomplished and what is recommended for me next?

That is a problem. There is no standardized protocol to follow after this milestone. 24/7 for 20 years and then, nothing. I find myself thinking more and more often about days past. Wishing I could freeze them. Wishing I could return. Especially the days when I didn't feel like paying attention. The days when I shooed them away so I could carve out time for myself. If only I could get those back.

Not too long ago, I had a conversation with a neighbor of mine. She has children who are about 5 years behind my own. Her oldest just started high school and we ran into each other at a concert. I did that "old grizzled wizened mom" thing where we talked about all the great things available for our children. I commented, "I love knowing where my kids are and what they are doing on a Friday or Saturday. I love that they are involved with XYZ."

Wasn't expecting that!
 photos courtesy of: www.markstahlphoto.com.

Clearly, I was on a roll, so I continued. I said, "Think of it this way. This is the last time in their lives they will be able to run with a track team, or perform on a school stage. They aren't likely to audition for choir or band again, and the school dances will come to an end along with pep rallies. This is the time for them to enjoy that and for us to do what we can to make sure they take full advantage of it today. It doesn't come back."

We nodded knowingly reflecting on the own activities we did in high school and the infrequency of it since. I don't play clarinet these days and I'm not even sure I remember. I am not likely to march at halftime at a football game (although a few years ago, during our sneak peek show, the parents were invited to come out on the field with the kids and it was a hoot -- even if I was off a beat).  The point is, I've moved onto adult responsibilities and relaxations.

As tempted as I am to do over those days I wasn't engaged, I know that's horribly unfair. It would be like yelling at someone who slept when they took a vacation at Disney. Yes, everything is incredibly exciting. It's also exhausting. You must recharge.

I realized I cannot look back. I cannot freeze time. I can only remember it and cherish it. I can hold it close to my heart while I patiently await what is next.

Choosing our words and also our reactions

Everyone has heard the cautionary tale about the little boy who cried wolf, or what happens if you yell FIRE! in a public place when there isn't one. At some point, we become desensitized to the language and when a real emergency happens, nobody reacts.

Elementary schools always have some sort of anti-bullying policy and children are taught to never-ever bully, but they don't always seem to be taught what exactly constitutes bullying. I see this phenomenon as a substitute teacher in the district where I work. Nearly every day, one child makes an unkind or unfiltered remark to another, something perhaps as innocuous as your hair looks weird today or I don't like the color of your sweater. Within moments, I have a child telling me they've been "bullied". I'm put in a position of mediation, but in a culture that is so hyper-vigilant, every utterance must be monitored. In fact, if I don't react properly, I could be responsible for not addressing the situation.

I'd like to teach our children instead to be ducks and let it roll off their backs. When did the teasing that is inherently part of children being children become a rallying cry for preventative measures in every exchange? In no way do I wish to diminish the very real and serious problem of bullying, especially with the lengths true bullying can go in today's cyber world. However, I believe that the culture reduces the problem to the level that when real bullying happens, it's often ignored, in a slew of ongoing offenses we commit against one another.

When I was in high school, our drama club did a very funny play called The Stuck Pot. Here is a synopsis from Dramatic Publishing:

Some boy is always getting stuck with an awful "lemon" for his date at the annual dance. The boys have decided to establish a consolation prize to be awarded to the boy who gets stuck. They call it The Stuck Pot. The girls retaliate by establishing a stuck pot of their own. So much money is collected for the two stuck pots that everyone (almost!) wants to win. Alice is particularly anxious to win. She's not much interested in boys and she'd like that "pot" in order to buy a microscope. Alice is a whiz at chemistry and she cooks up a unique new "perfume," the smell of which should send any boy running for the hills. Meanwhile, some of the other girls are vying to be the most unattractive, and it results in probably the most riotously funny dance scene your audience will ever see. The dance reaches a humorous climax and a delightful resolution. 

I remember laughing hysterically at this play 30 years ago. The same play this year was rejected by the administration as having too many undercurrents of "bullying".  When the reason was explained to me, I absolutely understood, but I couldn't help but wonder why nobody ever considered it a generation ago?

I've addressed my own issues with bullying as both the giver and the receiver, and have seen glimpses of it while raising my own children. However, we don't teach elementary school children that sometimes people just aren't always nice to each other, and that isn't the same thing as terrorizing, harassing, or bullying. It's about learning social skills to diffuse a situation instead of escalate it.

When I was about 10 years old, I had a pair of boots that my mom picked out for me. They were very stylish in her eyes, but they weren't at all like anything my classmates wore. I didn't want to wear them to school, because I knew what would happen. But of course, Mom made me wear them to school and sure enough, I got there and everyone made fun of my boots. They were strange looking for the style of the day. I recoiled, embarrassed that I had to spend the day in boots that I knew people would tease me about. I got home, barely able to conceal my anger, and refused to ever wear the boots again. I look at the boots today and think they are pretty cool. But to a 5th grader in the mid 70s, it just didn't work with the styles my peers were wearing.

What happened with the boot incident was not bullying but a series of life lessons. I learned that sometimes people tease you for something you cannot control. You either learn the confidence to manage it or you let it hurt you. Or you find a reason to stop being teased. In my case, I knew my boots were funny looking in elementary school eyes. I gained the confidence to stand up to my mom and grow into a more independent person. I didn't hate my classmates or internalize the teasing. They were making fun of the boots, not me.  But I wonder how such an incident would be repeated today. Would a little girl wearing the funny looking boots think she was bullied? How can we check that reaction and instill the coping skills to manage some uncomfortable moments?

I think that's what it really boils down to. We need to learn to manage moments of discomfort. Those moments we're either embarrassed or ashamed, and how we handle it. It's about how we're reacting to what someone is saying.

Being thoughtful isn't a one way street. It's not just about what we say, but also what we hear and how we react. A little more thoughtfulness would go a long way.

Goal for 2015

Many years ago, (at least seven), I started blogging under a pen name. I woke up every morning and wrote something. A lot of it was ridiculous, some of it was sublime, but the ritual was necessary. I wrote and shared and folks gave me feedback. Sometimes the feedback was "what in the world are you talking about" and sometimes it was "wow, you really nailed it". But feedback helped me grow. It helped me grow so much I stopped writing privately and brought it public. Then I stopped writing.

I started marketing and selling and making sure that what I said fit my intended audience. And it got tiresome. I started to drift. I stopped making sense.

Since my days of regular writing, I've found a lot more commercial success, but I've unfortunately, my writing skills have atrophied. I like to think it's like riding a bike, I just need to get back on it and it will all make sense. I'm training my fingers to do just that and hope my mind comes along for the ride.

As long as I'm talking about bike riding, I need to shout out another goal. I joined an exercise studio over a year ago, one that specializes in spinning. For those who don't know, spinning is an intense stationary bike workout. It's cool because unlike when you ride on the road, if you slow down, you don't get left behind, you simply slow down. I ride a little slower for several reasons. One is that I am overweight. I'm trying not to be. But I am. The other is a slight heart condition. I have been diagnosed with "mitral valve regurgitation". Basically what that means is that one of the valves that sends oxygen to my blood doesn't always close and the oxygen flows the wrong way. At least that's how I understand it based on my research following the diagnosis. But I get short of breath sometimes, with a legitimate reason. My heart doesn't always get the oxygen where it needs to be. My doctor is watching it. As am I. I just realize that if I'm having a hard time breathing, I need to slow down and catch my breath.

It ties into the theme of my decision to write again daily. I need the fresh air. I need to breathe. I need to try to write again, every day. I have a goal of writing a biography for someone and I need to get back on that bike and ride.

Here is my bike. The chain is oiled, the tires full, and the handles ready.

So am I.

To writing, breathing, riding and life.
L'Chaim!

I'm not racist (but) ... and other lies we tell ourselves

I'm a white woman living in a white world. My life is pristine and crisp. But I think I'm enlightened. I participate in discussions about race and keep an open mind. Heck, I even told one of my black friends (because all us enlightened folks have black friends we reference as proof we aren't racist), that I understood. I even went so far as to elaborate. I explained in great detail how big I was for understanding the need to even the playing field, as I continued about my own personal experience. I was in college and applied to be an RA in the dorm. My competition was a black girl. Or at least one of several competitors. But she was the one who got the job. I remember the shock and outrage that she was selected, and not I. Never mind that 14 were selected. She was the one I should have beaten.

I explained this very sincerely. Halfway through the explanation, I realized, I. Am. An. Asshole. This from a woman who doesn't curse on a regular basis. But it fit. I placed an incredibly arrogant myopic view on my experience. I told myself for 25 years that I lost to a black woman. I comforted myself with false magnanimous declarations that it evened things out. I never took a moment to consider that I had been competing for a job with 13 other candidates. Only that I lost the the black girl. So I again repeat, I. Am. An. Asshole.

You see? I have sold myself on the assumption that white people deserve jobs and if black people get them, it's about quotas, not quality. I was so myopic, that I didn't consider perhaps I wasn't as qualified, or didn't interview as well. I assumed the job was mine. Because I'm fabulous and I know it.

Ha.

I recoil in my assumptions but embrace the chance to learn. In a time when we are barely openly discussing race, I am not going to miss my chance. I had an epiphany last week. In the middle of explaining to my friend how "big" I was for understanding that I had to take the hit, I realized what a jerk I was. I realized that my WHITE PRIVILEGE never had me consider that maybe I just wasn't the best person for the job. I am embarrassed. As I discussed my experience with my friend, I recoiled in shame.

This is the crux... I live in a bubble. I don't know what I don't know. This doesn't make me a horrible person. This means I need to recognize that just because it isn't in my realm, it doesn't mean it isn't real.

This means that it took me over 25 years to realize that I wasn't the best person for the job. Period.

Thanks, Staci, for listening to me and being my friend. I love you.
P.S. Happy Birthday, friend.

The meaning of Christmas

To me, Christmas is a year round celebration, not the weeks leading into nowadays Halloween and Thanksgiving. I get frustrated by the retail push to encourage us to spend money on kitschy junk as a way to "celebrate". Then there is the stress to get it all done, adding tasks to an already full plate. The past few years, I've given myself permission to skip one of the must-do tasks as a way of offering a reprieve. One year, I didn't bake cookies. Another year I didn't mail out cards. Another year I didn't write a Christmas letter, etc. But even by allowing myself a breather, I still feel overwhelmed and out of breath. I can completely understand the sentiment behind John Grisham's book Skipping Christmas, which was adapted into the film Christmas with the Kranks.

This year, for a number of personal reasons, I am not feeling any of it. My heart isn't in the mad retail or decorating melee. I've written Christmas letters, but not copied them and gotten cards, but still not mailed them. I decorated the tree but decided we didn't need to do outdoor lights, only to have to undo them in a few weeks. I'm just not in the mood for any of it. I don't want to bake, I don't want to decorate, I don't want to put on a fake smile. I just want peace. And quiet.

But, then once I get that peace and quiet, I remember why we even have the season. Over two thousand years ago, a baby was born into a humble life. There are a lot of stories about the hows and whys and the expectations of this young baby. When we stop thinking about another blow up Santa yard ornament or reindeer antlers for our car or ugly Christmas sweaters, we may remember the words that young baby grew up to share. We may remember His parables and stories, reminding us that Christmas is anything but all the stuff we force ourselves to do to celebrate. The things that ultimately leave us wanting. You see, Christmas has nothing to do with any of the things I am stressed about or not feeling.

Christmas is about the words of Jesus. Whatever you do or don't believe about religion, if you recognize Christmas as any sort of holiday, you must recognize the words of the namesake. Words like:

Sell your possessions, and give to the needy.

He opened his mouth and taught them, saying: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’

And the crowds asked him, “What then shall we do?” And he answered them, “Whoever has two tunics is to share with him who has none, and whoever has food is to do likewise.”

These are the words that remind me what Christmas is about. The words Christ spoke, repeatedly.

Here in my town, I've been given a reminder. A man in my community is reaching out to the people that often are overlooked. Those who hide beneath our bridges and huddle in vacant buildings. People who haven't seen a shower or had a hot meal in days. People who need medical help. People who most of us turn away like we never saw them. He is finding them and going to where they are camping in a Tent City along our river. A loosely organized group has been doing daily outreach. They are going to where the houseless live, in makeshift shelters, up and down the banks of the river. Building trust with people the world has ignored and shunned. The group is helping keep our brothers and sisters warm, fed, and restoring dignity. They are no longer faceless ghosts we try to ignore. They are men like Will, who wants to find work in a restaurant, or Freddie who can work as a janitor. Or Jen who has worked as an office manager and billing clerk. The group is collecting bus passes and survival gear. Planting fruit trees so the camp will one day bear edible fruit for anyone who needs it. But more than anything, they are planting hope.

Jesus didn't charge us to hang wreaths from our eaves or put large plastic light-up figurines of His birth on our town square. He didn't ask us to yell at clerks who don't say Merry Christmas or write companies expressing outrage at a policy that won't allow it. He didn't ask us to exchange useless white elephant gifts and laugh about sticking someone with something nobody needs. He didn't ask us to bake piles of food and eat like gluttons while Lazarus sat the the gate waiting for even our scraps. Those aren't the messages we're supposed to hear about Christmas.

Thank you to a humble local shepherd, for reminding so many of us what we should be hearing.

If you're interested in learning more about Tent City and how you can help, please visit Go Fund Me. 

Let's all remember the Reason for the Season.

Amen.

She probably didn't think I noticed

Last week, I had an opportunity to spend time with a faraway friend.

We originally met online several years ago as we both were looking for freelancers to collaborate with. The writer and the graphic artist met and became friends, then colleagues. We worked on a few projects together and then due to the nature of our work, life got in the way of our collaborations. We still were working, but coordinating that work in the same place and time became cumbersome and our careers moved forward, albeit separately, not as a team. 

We still would touch base from time to time, seeing how the other was doing, but our contact was superficial and tangential. Then this past June, I sent her a note. I mentioned how much I missed our conversations. 

We haven't touched base in a while, but I thought it would be nice to catch up. You're on my mind from time to time and I wonder how life is going. I cannot believe our emails go back 5 years, it seems like yesterday we took that spring break trip to visit you. I hope you're well.
June 18
6/18, 3:03pm
Well at the moment not so great... dealing with possibly having breast cancer. Should have a better idea in the next few days just what is ahead... surgery... or surgery and chemo. So that's my deal for right now.
Distract me dear friend with what has been going on with you?

That conversation quickly became a diagnosis. She has Stage 4 inflammatory breast cancer that has spread. She may only have a year of life. Or 13 (the years of the person she met who has survived the longest). Or more. But the diagnosis is clear. It's an ugly cancer and it's tough to beat.

But what do strong women do when they hear that? They plan a trip with friends. Or at least that is what my friend did. She asked me if I wanted to go see Wicked. So completely on impulse, the two of us combing the internet for discounts, she got us a fantastic room overlooking Times Square with a Priceline bid and I was able to find fabulous discounts on theater tickets. The rest of it was left to chance and energy. We knew better than to plan a million things, taking fatigue into account.

I drove in and my friend took the train. We arrived within an hour of each other and commenced on our merry-making. We did all the things that friends do when they have a limited amount of time together and that time is in NYC.

We went for cocktails at The View, a rotating restaurant 48 floors up from the city. It was so elegant and touristy. I loved our ever-changing view of the city.

There is lot of things that happened between the start of our time away and the end. But I want to highlight something I don't think my friend knew I saw.

We had tickets to see Wicked. The energy and enthusiasm surrounding our evening was evident. We were looking forward to the night and all it would bring. I never realized it would bring a moment of honest clarity such as this.

We were in the restroom and as is typical of NYC, the restrooms have attendants. As my friend was leaving, she slipped the attendant a $20 bill. It was subtle. I barely noticed but I do admit to looking and catching that moment.

She didn't say a word. That wasn't what it was about. In fact, it isn't why I'm writing this post, to be honest. I wanted to point out to anyone who reads this... no matter WHAT your situation is, it improves exponentially when you consider another person. We had a great visit. We didn't focus on the unpredictable, but instead focused on our friendship and time together.

When she didn't think I noticed, I remembered all the reasons I love my friend. She is generous and loving. She thinks of others. She had a moment to do something random and kind for someone else and grabbed it. She wasn't about glory or recognition. As I said, she probably didn't even see that I saw.

She just knows that when you can do something that makes another person's life better you should take that opportunity.

Thank you for being my friend, Holli.

I love you and I love our friendship. You're a special person and I am so grateful you're in my life.

On our anniversary

Today, Mr. Fresh Daily Bread and I celebrate 24 years of marriage.

Don't run, this isn't going to be your typical sappy lovey-dovey post. I promise. In our years of marriage, my husband and I have tempered each other's natural personality. There was a day I would have been sprinkling my post with rose petals, unicorn farts, and rainbows. That isn't today. Instead, I smashed a fruit fly in my computer screen and quickly disposed of his carcass.

I want to discuss what 24 years of life with the same person can bring. The good, the bad, and the honest.

I've never found a person more annoying in my life. Nor have I ever appreciated the ability to know what's coming. Those quirks, those compulsions, those rules. I tend to be the sort of person who flies by the seat of my pants. I deal with things as they approach me, head on. I'd totally lose in a disaster preparedness competition. Maybe. I am a planner, but not a predictor. I am the sort of person who decides what the weather will be by stepping outside, not watching radar or Weather Channel. That attitude has burned me as often as it has served me. I know that Weather Channel watchers can testify much the same. Weather, much like life, is not predictable.

We have two children. I often tell them, "this is a life lesson", when they have to deal with difficult circumstances, whether it be a group project, an aggravating teacher or a difficult friendship. You figure it out, and life doesn't stop because things aren't perfect.

Little did I realize that marriage with a complete opposite would be an ongoing life lesson. Upon reflection, we've oft commented that the first year we were together, if we were not married, we may not be together. But we'd made that commitment and dangit, if our stubborn arrogant selves weren't going to admit it, we were going to get through it. It was tough. Nobody tells you that, but I will. It was tough that first year of marriage.

You'd think it got easier as we went along. After year one, things sailed smoothly. We both worked, continued our educations, and built our savings accounts. We took great vacations and though our time together was limited, we made the most of it.

Then we decided to start a family. We had very carefully discussed it ahead of time. My career wasn't moving forward quickly and his was. We knew it was time to figure out what was next. We had our firstborn and with his success and our years of saving, I quit my job and took on a new one. Raising our daughter.

On a personal level, it was a huge adjustment for me. I had been very devoted to my job and my fellow co-workers. I loved what I did, but knew it was time to head in a different direction. I had to figure out who I was again. I can remember spending time with a former co-worker, a few years later, sharing some of the projects I had undertaken (including a stained glass window I made) and the co-worker telling me I really needed to get a life.

I didn't say anything at the time but I was stunned.

I wanted to say, "Why is my devotion to my family and finding side hobbies any less indicative of having a life?" But it gnawed at me. I knew that my brain was restless. As much as our family meant to me, I realized a little piece of myself was dying daily.

I decided to make my dream come true. As a child, I dreamed of writing. Of arranging words on paper in a way that people wanted to read them. My decision to pursue freelance writing as a career was not a "mommy-blogger" motivation. It was an angle that fit an audience I knew intimately.

You may be wondering why I'm still not discussing my marriage or anniversary, since that was the headline. The fact is, I am, but just not in a way that is expected. I am married and in many ways, yes the two became one, but in many others it's been a journey of being myself, losing myself and finding myself. All in the midst of being a partner.

Time moved forward. That baby is an adult and has an almost adult sister. And our marriage has been up as often as it's been down. We fight. We disagree. And in the end we concur, there is no better way to walk through this world than together. We balance each other. Two opposites. A save-the-world hippie and a process-minded efficient engineer. We came together and somehow have made it work. There isn't a day that goes by that he doesn't tell me a better way I could do something and there isn't a day that goes by that I dismiss his fears and compulsions. We look at the weather differently. There are days he studies his radar and carries coats and umbrellas, unnecessarily, and days I step outside and do the same.

But in this journey, after one half of my life, I don't know how we'd have done it without each other. I cannot imagine a day I don't wake up with my husband and I don't want to. Our life has worked. It isn't always pretty and it isn't always precise, but it's ours. I'm not a romantic, I'm a realist. And our life together is much better than it would have been apart. I'm grateful for our journey.

Happy Anniversary to my partner, my bud, and my sweetie.
It's our day.

Is this for a grade?

When I'm not pounding like a maniac on the keyboard writing or trying to find someone who will pay me to write, I substitute teach. In my state, I can teach any grade short term, which is defined as less than 5 consecutive days.

I teach in two local districts and due to my daily schedule, usually stick to middle school and younger. I've discovered that with high school classes, I'm more or less a test or study hall monitor. I don't really get to learn or teach a thing. 

This week, I was substitute teaching middle school Social Studies. The classes were American History and World Civilization. I enjoy the refresher course in things learned in ages past. I remembered things I knew about Ancient Greece and Sacagawea. In some ways, it reminded me of the scene in the movie Big, when Tom Hanks played a 12 year old who became "big" overnight. He was at a dinner party and the host's son had a question about the three ships that Christopher Columbus sailed (Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria), and an adult pipes in about seeing the same documentary. 

As we reviewed a video and I passed out review sheets to compliment the video, several students piped up and asked "is this for a grade?" I paused. I honestly didn't know if it was for a grade or not. But in shock. I said, Does it matter? Would that change your quality of work? Would you not look for the right answers if it was?

I was not as stunned when the next class had the same question, and I quickly answered that I wasn't sure, but that at some point, it would be, so why not get a jump on what you need to know now?

The overriding concern with grades and scores reminded me of the changes in education. To be fair, grades have always mattered, it is how we could tell how much we had learned. It is a way for the teacher to know what they still need to teach. But the underlying tone that if the lesson wasn't for a grade, it wasn't important really struck me. Shouldn't all our work, whether we are in first grade, high school, college or life be done as if it mattered? As if we are being graded? As if we could assess what we knew and didn't know? 

It struck me as odd that students would gauge how hard they worked on whether that work would be measured. And if it wasn't going to be measured, it wasn't worth the work? Something got skewed in our educational system where we only teach what will be measured and we only work if we are going to measure it. 

To sit in a classroom with the opportunity to learn something new for free, what a gift! 

Or we could just hope that  someone who did learn about it makes a documentary.

You're not invisible

I live in a depressed area of the midwest. In 2011, our city had the highest concentrated poverty rate among core cities in the United States’ 100 largest metropolitan areas. Driving through the town, it's not uncommon to see dilapidated houses, homeless people, and abandoned cars. Where I live is outside the core city, but often have to drive through the city.

Yesterday, it was a lovely 75 degree fall afternoon and I was on my way to a meeting. My sunroof was open and the radio was tuned to my favorite station. I mentally cursed as I saw the light I was approaching turn red, slowing my journey. I grumbled even more when I spotted the far-too-familiar person on the corner with a cardboard sign asking for money.

My mental inventory was rattling off a course of action, while I rolled up the window on that side of my car as I came to a stop. I kept telling myself not to make eye contact, "don't encourage him", the typical narrative we tell ourselves when we see someone who makes us uncomfortable.

In the periphery, I saw him standing still on the corner, not approaching any of the cars, just hopefully holding his sign, willing someone to open their window, or maybe their heart.

I had just stopped at the ATM, put some cash in my wallet, and it was tucked into my purse, laying on the passenger seat. Something hit me in that moment. All I needed to do to get money was drive through a magic window, punch a few buttons and it popped out of a little slot. I never would know what the indignity of standing on a street corner in an economically decimated town with a makeshift cardboard sign, hoping for the kindness of a stranger. I knew I could do better than avert my eyes. I could do something.

In that split second I reached into my wallet and grabbed one of the crisp bills I had just gotten from the ATM. I rolled down my window and motioned for him to come over. It was broad daylight, so I wasn't worried for my safety, in fact if anything, I wanted him to know that I didn't meet the stereotype anymore than maybe he did. I didn't want either of us to be invisible to each other.

He was polite and graciously appreciative and told me not to be scared, he'd never hurt a woman. The light was about to change and so there wasn't a lot of time for chit-chat. I don't know a thing about why he was begging or homeless. It didn't matter. He didn't know a thing about why I had a luxury car or a crisp $20. We saw past the stories we tell ourselves about others and only saw two people helping each other. Yes, he helped me. He helped me soften my heart. I wished him luck and told him to have a nice day.

My friend with the cardboard sign smiled broadly and he must have said "thank you" 10 times. The light changed as I drove off and he waved and then resumed his quietly dignified stance, as dignified as I imagine a person who is begging for money could be. But he was smiling. Someone saw him and someone cared.

Now I'm not suggesting we throw money at every person who asks for it, without wondering why they need it. Or maybe I am. Maybe it doesn't matter why they are asking. Really, think about it. That bill I handed him meant so much more to him than it would to me. In fact, I've even gone into a forgotten pair of pants or done laundry and found a $20. I'm pretty sure that's never happened to someone like him. I had it to share, so I did.

Maybe I am suggesting we take off the blinders and remind those in need that they are not invisible. They exist and they need to be seen. We exist and we need to be seen. We share this planet. Let's see each other as neighbors.

Trouble Maker

Last year, after my firstborn child started college, and my second born was old enough to drive, I realized my nest was half full. For years, I've felt that I was meant to be a teacher. I mean this with no immodesty; I am really good with kids. I like them and I convey that. Because they know I like them, they respond.

I learned that I am not meant to be a full time teacher because I don't like planning or paperwork or tests. I like getting in and getting my hands dirty. I'm grateful for the carefully arranged lessons and statistical measures that each teacher must do. Me? I get to come in for a day and be a rock star. I read the lessons, ask questions and watch young eyes and minds come to life.

Sometimes. Sometimes, I see a child who is either struggling or beaten down.

Yesterday, I became reacquainted with some of my students from last year. My heart tugged as I saw a young man I met last year. He had been identified as a trouble maker last year and actually accused of crimes that were later proven he didn't commit. He seems to have found a comfortable place as the trouble maker and that saddened me. I don't have the arrogance to suppose that he isn’t as bad as he seems, but boy, I sure hope that I can give him a glimpse of someone believing in him.

He’s a bright young man. I read his work and it’s as good if not better than anything his peers produce. But he’s labeled. Last year, he was accused of stealing, and even under intense scrutiny, he denied the theft, explaining that he was allergic to peanuts, and that there was no way he would steal a Reese’s. The aide at the time nodded to me knowingly, explaining, he may not eat it, but he could probably sell it.

I actually understand why such a young man would fall under scrutiny. He is a behavior problem. The part where my heart breaks is that our egos don't give us the chance to let go when that scrutiny fails. We continue to accuse and suspect, even when we don't have a rational reason.

He was allergic to peanuts. He did NOT steal the Reese’s peanut butter cup, and in fact, a teacher came into the room later that morning and asked, did you find the money I left last night when I was here for conferences? The case of the missing candy bar was solved, but the cloud of suspicion hung over that young man.

The story stuck with me from my day as a sub. As someone who comes in and out one day at a time, I don't purport to know more than those who are there daily. But I see things differently. Yesterday, I saw my young friend again. We smiled knowingly at each other.

The work was assigned and he balked. He found one excuse after another to avoid doing it. The aide again told me, “All he does is get into trouble”. I remarked that sometimes things like that are self-fulfilling prophecies. He gets in trouble because that is what expected of him. I went over to him and said, “You need to stop stalling and do this or you will have to stay in for recess and work on it”. He began, albeit 20 minutes later, and wrote what I consider a very age appropriate and persuasive essay. I do not get to grade the essays, and honestly, I'm probably not even supposed to read them, but my personal fascination with this young student got the better of me. I had to see if he wrote anything of substance. He did.

My anecdotal evidence is simple. He is smart. But he is labeled. I don't see him daily so I can ignore the label.

But I also see the writing on the wall. This smart young student will not surpass his label. He will not be encouraged to reach further than his life. My heart cries for him. My heart cries for the thousands who are in cities around the nation, who are labeled and not listened to. A trouble maker he was labeled and that is who he will become.

Doesn’t seem right, does it?

Healthier school meals matter (infographic from Robert Woods Johnson Foundation)

Infographic: Healthier School Meals Matter by RWJF on RWJF.org

For a friend who needs a voice #YesAllWomen

A friend needed a place to share her story, why #YesAllWoman hit home. I offered my blog space and my writing skill for her to tell the world what happened to her. This is her story, in my words. 

Over the weekend, a movement for women's rights took place in the most viral of ways. The hashtag #YesAllWomen took over Twitter in response to the horrifying events that unfolded in Santa Barbara over the weekend. 

I refuse to give a name to the perpetrator. I hate when someone commits a crime and becomes famous. Nor do I suspect any victim wants to be famous for their victimization. 

Instead, I step back a few and generalize. It seems a logical extrapolation. Guy hates that girls aren't into him. Thinks it's appropriate to plan and execute revenge. I oversimplify, no question. The details of the event can be found anywhere online. 

I am going to tell a much more personal account and why the #YesAllWomen not only resonated but also why I still feel compelled to tell my story privately and express any level of sexuality the same way. 

When I was a college junior, I had finally saved enough to move out of the house. I had commuted to college my first two years, but wanted desperately to spread my wings. I had been very sheltered and my dad was strict. I am the only girl in my family. He guarded me with a baseball bat. 

I was so happy to have some independence. You see, through the years, I had never have spent even more than a night or two away from my family. I never went to camp, I had a few youth group retreats or sleepovers. I visited friends at college, but my time away from home was limited. I had no autonomy. 

Enter living on campus at college. 

You may have imagined, I lived up the stereotype. The sheltered kid went wild. I flirted, I met guys, I drank more than I should. I went to nightclubs and I stayed up late. I ate when I wanted. I was free. 

And that freedom got me forcibly assaulted sexually. There is another word for it, but to use it keeps my post from being published.

And for many years, I have believed it was my fault. 

I shouldn't have drank, I shouldn't have gone back to his room, I should have been louder when I told him no, stop, no. I should should should have this that this. 

I recoiled in blame and shame. 

After he r'ed me, I slinked back to my room. I thought we were just going to watch Saturday Night Live. I had hung out with him so many times before, I never assumed that being alone with him would be dangerous. In fact I felt so safe, I fell asleep. 

I woke up to him climbing atop me and trying to maneuver his penis inside my dry, sleepy, body. Everything was a fog except me saying no, please, no. But he did what he wanted to me. And I was ashamed. 

I said nothing. I scoured my shame down the drain and prayed away the filth. I stopped going out, knowing that if I went out I was at risk. I convinced myself I was the only one to blame for what happened. I told nobody. 

Until I ran into a girl I knew from across the hall. She was a first year student. *She* was young and naive, and didn't know better. She was visibly upset and I asked why. The same young man who r'ed me, attacked her. She held up her arms to show me the bruises where he pinned her against the wall in his attempt to be affectionate. She hung her head and said, I thought he was a nice guy. 

I decided that it was time to overcome my shame, that obviously this person was a creep and it wasn't just me. I looked at my neighbor and said, I need to tell you something. My incident had taken place about 10 days prior. There was no physical evidence. Only my word and her bruises stood between him and his word. 

We contacted the residence hall director who informed us that we needed to file police reports. My friend opted out at that point, but I had broken the silence and wasn't done. I went to the campus police where I was treated like a liar. I was informed that there was nothing they could do unless I went to the city police department to have a r. kit taken but that after the amount of time had passed, that there was no evidence to prove my case. 

Meanwhile, sensing there was no personal justice to be had, I opted for an awareness campaign to at least protect other young females in the dorm. I petitioned student services to offer an awareness/sexual assault workshop. They did, but I heard the murmurings of fellow female leaders that I made up my story to get attention. Then I knew why the hall director brushed me off. 

Even women didn't believe me. 

The story was that "we had sex but he blew me off and I made up the r. story to get revenge". Well, why not, they continued, she was involved with him and him, why was he any different? 

I never really got over that shame. The shame of my fellow women doubting me. The shame that even though I said no, something I did kept me from being believed. The shame that I should not have been there. 

I confided in my family. I don't know why I did to this day, because the first thing my dad said was "what the hell were you doing in a boy's room?". And he blocked it out. Because even last year when I dared to mention it again (in relationship to a news story about some athletes r-ing a girl who was drunk), he said, you never told me you were r-ed. 

Yes. I did. And I stopped talking about it because your first reaction was to blame me for being stupid and imply that I deserved it. So I never mentioned it again for over 25 years, and now I know why. 

Because #YesAllWomen should worry. 

You should not trust men to look out for your best interests. Trust yourself. Even your father, who will find it easier to blame then deny that anything horrible happened to you. Because it's easier to blame you than admit that men are dangerous. That society instills an idea that women are objects, not people. 

#YesAllWomen, because you and I are sisters. 

#YesAllWomen. 

Because. Because you and I are the same person.